


The Blackbird Whistling

by foxontherun



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A modicum of plot, Anal Sex, Double Penetration, Drunk Sex, F/M, First Time, M/M, Multi, Not really though, Oral Sex, PWP, Rimming, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Sex, alana sandwich
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:57:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxontherun/pseuds/foxontherun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will ends up drinking too much at a party and crashing at Hannibal's place. Hannibal and Alana decide that three's definitely not a crowd, and wake him up in various delicious ways. First chapter's pretty tame, but after that you're on your own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The beauty of inflections, or the beauty of innuendoes

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo. My first fanfic for the Hannibal fandom. My favorite fandom and my favorite show! I'm just gonna throw some sex at you, because who doesn't love a good threesome. Hope you like it!!

Will Graham has had too much to drink. He knows this intellectually, and feels it physically, but somehow he can’t bring himself to care. He’s in Hannibal’s living room, watching the doctor and Alana Bloom have an animated conversation about the gallery opening they had just attended, and he feels, surprisingly, good. He can’t remember the last time he’s had an evening that left him so warm and comfortable. The stiff anxiety that seems to follow him around like a sick fog has dissipated, and he lolls comfortably on a chair opposite the pair of psychiatrists. The funny thing is, attending a gallery opening, especially such a fancy one, is emphatically not his sort of thing at all. He generally finds himself shrinking into a corner at social events, trying desperately not to be noticed, trying to find some way out of mingling. He hates mingling, hates small talk. All of this is true, but at the event they just attended he actually managed to have a good time, albeit with a generous dose of help from the free champagne that had been circulating all evening. Hannibal, of course, is his usual suave self, managing to draw Will in to several conversations with luxuriously dressed gallery patrons, and, lubricated with champagne and Hannibal’s effortless charm, Will holds his own. He finds himself leaning towards Alana on more than one occasion and incredulously exclaiming that this is fun. It’s fun. The concept of fun has become more and more foreign to Will over the past few months. He’s come to accept the absence of fear as being as close to happy as he’s going to get. He’s settled for that. A night in with his dogs, a fire in the fireplace, a glass or two of whiskey.  
  
Now, looking at Alana, still radiant with the soft glow of alcohol on her cheeks, black dress tipped with dark red at the hem brushing her knees, Will grins to himself. He really should get out more. He watches as Hannibal brushes an invisible speck from the knee of his impeccable trousers, and feels a brush of heat settle in his belly. They look beautiful together, Alana and Hannibal. They have an easy chemistry that lends itself to this sort of intimate but harmless flirtation. Will wonders if they’ve ever had a fling – neither of them seem like the relationship type, but he can imagine them tumbling into bed together at a hotel after a long, boring conference, or perhaps Hannibal gently tugging her body to his while they cook together, sauce simmering away forgotten as he licks into her mouth, tasting rich beer and exhaling sharply as her hips press insistently into his own.  
  
Will shakes his head as if surfacing from water. He needs to banish these kinds of thoughts before his body responds any further. He’s not the type to lie to himself – he knows that he’s attracted to both Alana and Hannibal, but he tries to refrain from this sort of futile fantasizing. Alana has made it clear that she’s not available to him until he regains some stability, and Hannibal is, well, Hannibal. As untouchable as a stone monument atop a mountain, not to mention his psychiatrist. Will’s cheeks flush at the mere thought of Hannibal discovering his dirty little secrets. They are well tucked away inside his head most of the time, though his inebriation has brought them dangerously close to the surface. And Hannibal is eerily good at unlocking the vault of his mind. No, he needs to stop this train of thought before it derails his whole night.  
  
“I feel we are neglecting poor Will,” he hears Hannibal’s soft-accented voice from the couch opposite. He looks up and flashes a quick grin.  
  
“No, not at all,” he responds, “I was just lost in my own thoughts.” He takes another sip of the wine from his glass, though he knows this isn’t the best idea. The wine pools on his tongue, heady and tasting faintly of blackberries. He’s no connoisseur, but as the scent of the wine runs through his head he can understand why Hannibal insists on only the best.  
  
“I thought this evening was about getting you out of your own thoughts,” Alana says, crossing her legs at the ankles and stretching forward, letting out a little pleased sound.  
  
“I think the cham-champagne has done a good job of that,” Will says, faintly noticing the slur of his words, taking another swig from his wine. He leans back on the chair, noticing the way the world seems to be rotating slightly, and slides gracelessly off the cushions, landing on his knees with a confused grunt.  
  
“Oh-“ Alana and Hannibal are both on their feet, lifting him back up one to each arm.  
  
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Will feels ridiculous, but the room insists on shifting beneath his feet, and he almost slumps again, feeling Alana’s soft grip on one side, Hannibal’s strong hands holding him up on the other. It feels both embarrassing and lovely at the same time. A study in contrasts.  
  
“No need to apologize, Will,” Hannibal’s voice is a puff of breath that ghosts above his hairline. “But I think it would be best if you slept here tonight. I’m afraid I must insist on it,” he continues, to allay the half-hearted noise of protest Will makes. “Alana, I think I can manage to help Will to the guest room if you’d like to wait down here. I’ll join you shortly.”  
  
Alana’s grip is reluctantly removed, and Hannibal places Will’s arm around his shoulders, and slings his arm around Will’s, holding him up with an easy strength. Close together like this, Will can smell Hannibal, a faint but exotic scent like sandalwood and ginger. It is a heady thing, being pressed up against Hannibal’s side as they make their way up the stairs. He allows his eyes to flick to Hannibal’s, and finds not annoyance, as he expected, but warmth and a little amusement.  
  
“Not a drinker, are you Will?” Hannibal asks as they reach the landing.  
  
“Not usually, no,” Will answers carefully, trying to stay upright and not knock Hannibal sideways as he tries to distribute his weight. “I don’t think I’ve been this drunk since college.”  
  
“Self-medicating is a dangerous habit,” Hannibal comments as they finally reach the guest room. “But in this case I think it was just nerves. Nerves and an open bar, perhaps,” he says, and Will watches him grin out of the corner of his eye. Now that they’ve reached their destination, he finds he doesn’t want to let go of the easy embrace he’s tucked in. He wants Hannibal’s arms around him for the rest of the night. He wants to fall asleep like this. His cheeks redden as he’s placed gently on the bed. He feels the softness of the sheets and immediately curls up on them, placing his head on an unbelievably comfortable feather pillow. He lets out a little hum of contentment, barely noticing Hannibal tugging his shoes off and straightening the comforter over his shoulders.  
  
“Goodnight Will,” there is the briefest touch on his cheek, so brief he could almost believe he’d imagined it. The bed smells like Hannibal, that exotic, warm scent, and he inhales deeply before drifting off into a dark, dreamless sleep.


	2. The only moving thing was the eye of the blackbird.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of the Hannibloom portion of the smut. Next chapter and a half will be all Hannibloom, and then Will gets in on the action. Seriously though I haven't written porn in years, so I hope this is relatively hot (it get's hotter when the actual sex starts...)

When Hannibal gets back downstairs from tucking Will into bed, Alana is draped languorously over the couch holding a glass of wine to her lips. The combination of the wine and the warmth of the night has loosened her muscles and temporarily relaxed her usual professionalism. After watching Hannibal gently tug Will up the stairs, she has allowed her mind to wander a little - lingering briefly on Will, feeling a strong surge of affection, but then focusing itself on Hannibal. More precisely, her history with Hannibal. She can still remember the first lecture of his she attended, fresh-faced and much too naïve for her own good. The tall teacher with the hard-to-place foreign accent and the old-world courtly manners had brought out in her the first buddings of girlish infatuation, which she had tried more or less successfully to push down into her subconscious. She wanted to be taken seriously, and as a woman in academia, having a crush on a mentor was not the way to achieve that. But the crush had lingered, smoothing out into a dull glow as she had more and more face time with the doctor. As her mentor he had always treated her with nothing but respect and genial friendship. They had worked long hours together, their evenings trailing off into nighttime as she sat in his office pouring over psychological studies, making notes, her eyes aching with effort. He would sometimes offer her a glass of wine and they’d share it in comfortable silence. Sometimes she’d find her eyes wandering over the sharp curve of his cheekbone, or the sensual line of his lips, but she’d always put a stop to it, cursing herself inwardly. She never noticed his eyes on her, but sometimes she had a feeling – just a feeling, that he felt a mirroring attraction but was similarly hesitant, or outright unwilling to act on it. Now that they are colleagues and on more or less equal footing (though she has never really felt an equal to Hannibal’s preternatural abilities), they have a teasing flirtation, one which she has yet to act upon. It’s not that she doesn’t want to, not for a second, but she’s loathe to change the nature of their relationship, one of the least complicated and most rewarding that she has.  
  
However, tonight seems like a night for lowered inhibitions on all parts. When Hannibal returns with a courteous apology for making her wait, he takes a seat next to her, much closer than his previous polite distance. She cuts her eyes towards him, taking in the slight flush high on his cheeks and the way his eyes seem to shine just a little more brightly than their usual amber hue. He looks positively edible, with his suit slightly rumpled from Will’s clinging fingers and his hair hanging in front of his face in a tousled fringe, and she feels a spike of heat, low in her belly.  
  
“Where were we?” Hannibal asks, a teasing smile playing on his lips.  
  
“Well,” Alana takes a moment to think, and sips her wine. “We were having a conversation about Lucien Freud, and then we were watching Will collapse into a drunken stupor.” She answered his smile with one of her own.  
  
“Ah yes,” Hannibal replies, “poor Will seems to be less and less in tune with his limitations these days.” They lapse into a brief silence. Alana can feel a moodiness threatening to overtake them both as they consider the problem that is Will Graham. She doesn’t want the night to devolve into a mutual depression. Just when she is considering what to say to lighten the mood, she feels Hannibal’s fingers brush the delicate skin on the inside of her wrist. She almost drops her wine glass as she lets out an involuntary gasp. That touch had been deliberate and most definitely not within the bounds of their normal level of physicality. She opens her eyes wide as she turns to look at Hannibal.  
  
“Forgive me, Alana.” Hannibal offers, withdrawing his fingertips from her arm. “I’m overstepping.” He pauses, seemingly to marshall his thoughts. Alana is caught by his eyes. There is a heat there that she has never seen before from Hannibal. Never seen it directed at anyone. She feels trapped, staring into the deepening pools of his pupils.  
  
“It’s ok,” she says quietly. “Maybe it’s not so much overstepping as….as a natural progression.” There. She said it. She knows she’s opened a door, but it’s a door that has been threatening to open for so long that it feels like a relief to finally address it. To finally allow herself to give in to the attraction that has been lingering in the back of her mind for so many years. Hannibal takes her hand again, delicately tracing his fingers from her wrist to the inside of her elbow and back up again. Now arousal is coiling tightly in Alana’s belly, and she grasps his hand and raises it to her cheek, before it slides around to grasp the back of her neck.  
  
Hannibal’s lips against hers are soft and pliant. As they touch she lets out a low sound at the back of her throat and opens her mouth to him. He traces the outline of her plump lower lip and catches it briefly between his teeth before licking, hot and wet, into her, their mouths moving together with more ferocity now, more hunger. He has one hand tangled in her long dark hair and the other one is rubbing gently at the pulse point just below her ear and she reaches out to slide one of her hands around his shoulder, tracing one finger up and down the nape of his neck. They part, finally, for air, and Alana finds herself fascinated by Hannibal’s wet lips, the slight heaving of his chest, before he reaches for her again, and she slips easily onto his lap. This time when he kisses her, she moans, because she can feel his agile fingers slipping underneath the silk of her dress, unzipping the back so that he can run his hands over the soft skin of her back, deftly undoing the clasp of her bra. She grinds against him and can feel his body responding under hers. It is a thrilling sensation, knowing that she is doing this to Hannibal. Knowing that he desires her as much as she, that she could possibly make this immovable force of a man come undone beneath her. He presses his growing hardness into the heat of her and this time they both gasp, a low rumble coming from Hannibal’s chest that is something bordering on a growl. She is naked to the waist now, and Hannibal runs the rough pads of his fingers over her nipples before leaning down to take one into his mouth. She moans at the sensation, feeling herself getting wetter, electricity racing to her groin, making her hips buck involuntarily. Hannibal swipes his tongue over her nipple, rolling the other one between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing lightly in time with the passes of his tongue over the stiff bud. Alana is panting now, desperate for him to touch her. She presses him gently back against the couch and unbuttons his shirt, feeling the expensive material pool like silk between her fingers, and pushes it back, exposing his broad chest. He’s in prime shape, firm but with a hint of pleasing softness around the middle, a testament to many fine meals, she supposes, and scratches her nails lightly through the fuzz of hair on his chest. His hips arch upward at the touch and he tips his head back, letting out a small sigh as she leans forward to mouth underneath his jaw and down the column of his throat. He grasps both sides of her head, firmly, spanning her skull with his long fingers, and draws her head up to reclaim her mouth, tongue curling against hers with a taste like red wine and spices and something that is entirely Hannibal.  
  
“Perhaps we should move upstairs,” he says breathlessly after they break the kiss. “It seems that the couch is no longer suitable for our needs.”  
  
Wordlessly, Alana nods, and Hannibal stands up, folding his discarded shirt under his arm, and reaches for her hand.


	3. A small part of the pantomime.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal is a gourmet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the titles of the chapters, as well as the title of the fic itself, are from 13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird, a poem by Wallace Stevens, which I highly recommend you check out!

Alana should have known Hannibal would be a sensational lover. She had entertained a brief worry that he would bring his natural fastidiousness and infinite care into the bedroom, leaving the experience satisfying but ultimately dry – lacking in passion.  
  
It turns out she was wrong. They barely make it to the door of Hannibal’s bedroom before he presses her against it – cages her in with his arms and his body and grips her head roughly between his large hands, claiming her mouth in a kiss that has a little more teeth to it, a hint of animal, of predator. She moans as she opens her eyes to see the glint of lust in the older man’s hooded gaze. Hannibal, it appears, has passion. In spades. He slowly presses his hips to hers, so that she can feel his erection – feel how much she is effecting him, and she reaches around to grasp firm handfuls of his ass, dragging him more firmly to her as he mouths at the underside of her jaw, dragging his teeth along her sensitive skin. He lets out a low gasp at this handling.  
  
“Hannibal,” Alana breathes out, suddenly mindful of where they are and who else is present in the house. “Should we be…we might wake Will up.” Hannibal’s face is so close to hers, his nose rubbing gently up her cheek, followed by a hint of lips, and it’s getting harder and harder for Alana to think, let alone talk.  
  
“And would that be such a bad thing?” Hannibal asks quietly, tongue tracing the shell of her ear. Alana gasps, an inadvertent shudder of lust crawling up her spine. What exactly is Hannibal suggesting?  
  
“Hannibal I…Will and I have a complicated history, and I’m not sure it’s entirely fair to him for us to be screwing like animals one bedroom over from where he’s sleeping.”  
  
“I think you may be underestimating dear Will,” Hannibal breathes into her ear. “He may yet surprise you with his uncharacteristic reactions to unexpected scenarios. In fact, if he does wake up, I think the evening might prove to be even more delightful than it already has been.”  
  
Alana looks up at the older man. He has a sly grin on his face that makes her feel a little weak in the knees. Fuck it, she thinks. Will’s probably not going to wake up as it is. And if he does….we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.  
  
Hannibal looks at Alana with a smirk. He can tell the exact moment when she gives in to the little devil on her shoulder. Nothing could be easier. He opens the door to his bedroom and leads her to a sumptuously made bed with a downy royal blue comforter and crisp white sheets. Alana tries to take in the gorgeous surroundings, but she’s distracted almost immediately by Hannibal deftly unbuttoning his now-wrinkled dress shirt and kneeling before her, his broad chest bare, the muscles in his arms working as he runs his palms up the inside of her legs, smoothing over the skin and under the hem of her dress. Alana lets her head fall back, and props herself up on her elbows, spreading her legs a little wider. The fact that Hannibal is on his knees, running delicate fingers across the inside of her thighs makes Alana feel heady, powerful. As much as she knows, intellectually, that sex can be as much about power as about intimacy, she has never really felt that power to the extent she’s feeling it now. Her teacher, her mentor, a man who seems to control so much about his world and everything in it, he’s palming himself through his trousers as he looks up at her bared neck, as his fingers grasp the waistband of her panties and he slowly tugs them down. He wants her. And that want is powerful.  
  
Once her underwear is removed Hannibal tucks Alana’s dress up around her waist and sets about using his mouth where his fingers had been tracing moments before. He drops trailing, dry kisses up to the juncture of her thigh, across her hipbone, and brushes his lips just above where she needs it. She lets out a high, needy sound and gasps his name, feeling heat, wetness, want pooling down between her legs, just below where Hannibal’s tongue is now tracing. He grins up at her, his pupil’s dilated, dark with playful lust, and, keeping that intense eye contact, deliberately parts her folds and licks a hot wet stripe right up the center of her, curling his lips to swipe the tip of his tongue over her clit. Alana bucks into this motion, a startled gasp ratcheting out of her lungs as Hannibal presses her hips down to the bed and continues to lavish attention onto her clit, swirling his tongue directly over the sensitive nub, licking and then sucking, burying his face into her, his thumbs stroking over her hipbones, soothing her as she begins to lose control over the noises she’s making, gasps and moans that become more and more insistent.  
  
“God, Hannibal,” Alana whines, feeling the beginnings of her orgasm build inside her. Hannibal, sensing how close she is, removes one of his hands from her hip and guides two long fingers inside of her, roughly fucking her with them as he continues sucking and licking her. Now Alana is arching her back, unable to contain the rising tide of electricity within her, and she’s getting louder, pinching her own nipples and bucking her hips and the ragged moans being torn out of her are more and more desperate. It’s when Hannibal gently scrapes his teeth against her sensitive clit that she feels herself shooting over the edge, her hips tightening pressing up, up against Hannibal’s mouth, shaking and falling completely apart, her breathing wild, eyes screwed shut, head pulled back and her whole body quaking as Hannibal fucks her though it with his fingers and tongue, his unoccupied hand stroking himself through his pants, running his finger across the hot ridge of his cock that is almost fully hard now as he watches the gorgeous brunette coming in tight spasms above him.  
  
After the last aftershocks calm down, Alana props herself up on her elbows again to look down at Hannibal, and she’s panting slightly, still trying to control her breathing, pinpoints of lust flaring inside her as she takes in his wet, red lips, shiny with her arousal, and his tousled hair, falling into his eyes, and she watches him slowly stroke himself, taking a minute to just appreciate the utter sensuality of the situation, before she quirks her lips at him.  
  
“You’d better lose some of that clothing,” she says.


End file.
